


To Remember

by byebye



Series: It Would Be Easier [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:36:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8297837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byebye/pseuds/byebye
Summary: The Winter Soldier. Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes. Who are you?
Post-Winter Soldier, this work explores how Bucky tries to find himself after he meets Steve on the bridge. He travels, he remembers, and he visits.





	

**Author's Note:**

> While ‘graphic’ may be a little overzealous of a term to use in regards to violence, there are quite a few depictions of blood and gore, in addition to minor violent scenes from the movies. There are also instances of murdering children while he is the Winter Soldier. 
> 
> Also, the relationships tagged are not really ever romantic. There is mention of emotional attachments, and discussions of said attachments, but nothing is ever physical as Steve is never involved in the discussions. 
> 
> I’m assuming that the timeline from Avengers onward spans the same as our world (as opposed to the whole “Nick Fury’s bad week” thing). So, Winter Soldier was released April 4, 2014 and Age of Ultron May 1, 2015. So this fic is meant to take place during that 13 month time frame. 
> 
> Not beta’ed.

You are unsure how much time has passed since you were first stored. Time has not been relevant in your missions. It has come and gone, and you are as yet unsure how many missions you have completed. You know only that your final mission was the only one left undone. All others had been completed with speed and precision: you are the last resort and the last man standing. No one has ever managed to stop you. Few have caught a glimpse and fewer still have lived. 

But this last mission, the final mission your handlers would ever give you, you were almost defeated. What is odd, you think, is that once his mission had been completed, he gave up. You knew him, of that you are certain. His voice had managed to pull you from your mission for just a moment. 

“Bucky?” he had said during your second encounter. You knew that name, knew it just as for a moment you knew what that name meant to you. But it was gone, disappearing as quickly as it had come. Still, the remnants of its importance curled around you and enveloped you in a sense of.... You cannot name it. The word and the feeling stalled on your tongue. Perhaps you once knew who this was, but you can no longer remember.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” had come tumbling off your tongue before you could stop yourself. You were confused to find English spilling from your mouth; it was as unexpected as the surge of recognition. But you were sent to kill him and so you gripped your weapon, readying to shoot. You did not get the chance to pull the trigger as the flying man knocked you from your feet. Hesitation stilled you for a moment as you regained your feet. Desperation, although you did not know it then, held you steady. Panic and fear flooded through you for a half a moment. Then you steadied your hands and felt an explosion knock you backwards. 

 

He was taken, just as you were taken, to be done with as they pleased. Both of you were sent to die. Neither of you did. He escaped, and you managed to hold on to the memory of his voice, despite the rest of your memories being burned from your waking mind. Nothing else held, but it was enough. Enough so that when he called that name again, you let the feelings wash over you, without letting him know they existed. 

He fought harder than anyone you have previously encountered until the moment his mission was completed. You had never felt such fury as when he refused to fight you, as when he said that name over and over again. It burned through you, coursing through your veins as swiftly and as fully the blood it had taken over. 

“You’re my friend,” had been repeated over and over until you couldn’t take it anymore. The rage that had built and built about this man that knew you when you had no identity came bursting to the surface, full and boiling and broken. It tore through you in a rush as you beat him down and down and down. The mission rang through your mind. Terminate Captain America. Terminate Captain America. Terminate Captain America. 

“’Cause I’m with you, ‘til the end of the line,” he mumbled through his bloodied lips. The words rang through your mind stronger than anything had ever done before. You remembered your first mission: Protect Steve Rogers. Your very first mission. Your true mission. And you remembered that Steve Rogers plays Captain America and the horror of failing that first mission burnt through you as you stared at his broken face. Before you could stop, before you could trace yourself back to the beginning, the glass beneath you shattered and he tumbled through the sky to the hard cold sea below. 

After a moment’s hesitation, you let go of the ship and dropped into the water after him. He was falling, falling, falling. A memory of doing the same flashed through your mind for a moment before you were enveloped in the ice cold water. After dragging him to the shore, you wanted to stay. It was the first time you could remember wanting anything. But you knew you could not stay, the world crashing down around you. So you took one last look, and walked away from everything you knew. 

 

You wandered for months after, while you tried to figure out who you were. It wasn’t always aimless. Some days, a particularly violent memory would break its way into you; the only reasonable recourse was to find some remaining part of Hydra and raze it to the ground. That usually brought with it other memories--the same sort of violence and bloodshed--that had a more familiar and comforting overtone. You were never quite sure if your Winter Soldier memories, the ones that had been wiped after every mission, were truly what caused you to search and destroy. Mostly, you believed, the Hydra memories were just precursors to the comforting ones. That those better memories could only come to light if you were trying to destroy the old ones. 

They never really helped, though, those better memories. They, too, were filled with death and destruction; they, too, were filled with missions given from superior officers (although you often doubt they could ever be superior to you. You were merely the weapon to fulfill their horrid desires). Neither set of memories really helped you to figure out who you were before. Who you are after. 

During, well, that was obvious. During, you were the Soldier. Certainly, in one set you thought you were helping people--helping the man from the bridge--and in the other you thought you were serving a greater purpose--to bring peace to the people of the world. But you were always the Soldier, always the man trying to do good through bloodshed. Now, you think neither option brought the end you were trying to achieve. You did not help people--indeed you brought more death than anything else into the world--and you certainly did not help the man on the bridge. _He never did want your protection,_ a voice reminds you. You are uncertain who is speaking. And the Winter Soldier did not do any good, no matter what they had told you. The Winter Soldier was merely a tool they used to cause chaos and destruction.

Sometimes, you know that the man from the bridge-- _you call him Stevie_ a woman’s voice tells you--is the one speaking in your mind. But there are near a dozen male voices that ring through your mind, accented on occasion and even one in another language. (French, you sometimes decide to acknowledge.) Yet, it is the woman’s voice that rings through more often than anything else. More often, even, than Captain Rogers. You know his name. You know it. But the idea of actually calling him what her voice tells you to is impossible. He can’t be “Stevie.” He can’t. 

There are memories, ones that you try so hard to hang on to, that contain “Stevie.” They are the reasons why Rogers is not “Stevie.” But more importantly, they are the reasons why you are still trying to figure out who you are beyond what you have been made into. Those are the ones that give you someone to claim, for in them you are never the Weapon, nor the Soldier. In them, you are only the Protector. He is who you want to be: someone who does good, someone who is good. That is the second thing you can remember wanting. 

In these memories, he is small, so small, Stevie. Often his body is ailing, beaten, or broken. _That_ is Stevie--a small boy who simply won’t be knocked out of this world. He’s far too stubborn for that. Stevie is bull locked in the body of a mule. A hawk trapped as a hummingbird. He is not the giant hulking man known as Captain America. He is not the same as Steven G. Rogers. Stevie is a fighter; he would never have backed down from a fight the way Captain America did on the helicarrier. He would never have dropped his only defense on purpose, never would have given up. Stevie was always getting himself beat up; he didn’t know how to get beat down. 

You know the thought has been in your mind before, although you have difficulty in knowing why you thought it--or when or where. It happened while he was wiping his hands on his trousers after you had helped rid him of an enemy, but that is all you know. If, perhaps, Stevie had been less prone to fights, you might have a greater understanding. As it stands, many of your memories of Stevie have included fighting off enemies together. 

You are stopped in the middle of a street in Amman, the capital city of Jordan, as this thought crosses your mind. It is, you think, a place to begin defining who you are. Or, rather, who you are trying to become. Yes, yes, the idea of being a protector is something that has filtered through your mind more times than you can count since you decided to leave your mission unfinished. But now, you realize, being a protector is not a part of who you can become. You never protected Stevie. As much as he needed it, you never wanted to stop him from being himself. No. No, instead you fought along side him, a companion against evildoers. That, you decide as people rush along side you in the streets, will be the first thing you will use to help define who you are. 

You are a fighter.

With this acknowledgement, you are flooded with a surge of memories. They nearly knock you off your feet, and you hasten to leave the crowded streets, finding an alleyway quickly enough. You sink to the ground, head held tightly in your hands as the pain grows with every memory. You think they are painful because they must break through whatever was used to take them from you. That the pain you suffered to have them removed must be returned as they are returned. It is a punishment for them to come back, Hydra’s last revenge against the weapon that betrayed them. 

But as the thought crosses your mind, you see Stevie drawing a picture of his mother. You know it is several weeks after she has died, although you don’t know _how_ you know this. **He is staring hard at the drawing, but his pencil no longer moves smoothly across the page. After a moment, his jaw clenches, and he rips the sheet from the notebook, crumpling it in his hands. The Protector** (you have difficulty in naming him “Bucky,” although you know that is what he is called) **hurries towards Stevie in a flurry of movement, a pain anchoring in his chest.**

**“Stevie?” the Protector asks as he kneels beside his friend** (it took some time, but you can now acknowledge that was how they thought of one another) **. Stevie does not look at him, hand clenching and unclenching around the pencil until it breaks.**

**“I can’t do it, Buck. I can’t do it.” He drops the pieces to the floor, placing his head in his hands.** (You realize this is the image of how you are crouched in the alleyway in Amman) 

**“Do what, Stevie?”**

**“I can’t draw her face, not anymore. No matter what I do, it never turns out right, Buck. Her nose is too big, or the curve of her jaw is off, or one eye is too small. I can’t get it right. I just can’t.”**

**“Stevie...” The Protector is unsure how to help his friend. There are no words he can say to ease Stevie’s pain, no skill he has that will help. So he wraps his arms around the young man, and holds tight as Stevie cries into his shoulder. When Stevie finally pulls away, neither boy acknowledges what had happened. Instead, Stevie looks at the broken pieces of pencil on the floor beside them.**

**“I’m sorry I broke it, Buck. I didn’t mean to.”**

**“Course not. ‘Sides, it just means now you’ve got three pencils to try and draw my pretty face instead of just one.”**

**Stevie snorts and says, “Not even a hundred pencils could help me get your ugly mug right.”**

You are grateful for this memory in the wave of everything that comes crashing down at once. It makes you realize that the pain coming from the return of these memories is not, in fact, Hydra’s last revenge against you. Rather, it is your best revenge against them. Because the pain of memories is part of being human. Taking them back, pain and all, is your revenge against Hydra because you are shedding the skin they gave you--solid and unfeeling as steel--and stepping into the skin that you want--awful and broken as it may be. You are starting to lose the Weapon, the Soldier, and become human once again. Maybe you will never return to the skin of the Protector, and maybe you will never be “James Buchanan Barnes” again. But you are going to be human again. You are already on your way. 

 

Rogers and the flying man catch up with you in London. Of course, he does not know that it is less of them catching up to you, and more of you letting Rogers find you. You wanted to see Rogers, to know more about who he is now. You had finally started to get more distinct memories, ones that finally allowed you to identify the names of the male voices that sometimes spoke in your mind. The voices that tried to remind you of what it meant to be human, what it meant to be Bucky Barnes. You are still not sure you want to try to be Bucky Barnes, but you have decided now that you are never going to be the Protector. There is far too much blood on your hands--from every moment you were the Soldier--for you to ever be able to think of yourself as a protector of any kind. But these distinctive memories of the Howling Commandos-- _the Howlies_ the woman’s voice tells you--have helped you decide the second part of who you are. 

You are important to Captain Steve G. Rogers. 

You know that in normal circumstances, defining yourself by what another human being thinks of you is atrocious. There is a memory somewhere of your mother telling you as she patched some injury, **You are your own person, James, and you’ve got to start acting like one. You are not just Rebecca’s protective older brother, not just Steven’s best friend, not just another poor Brooklyn boy. You are James Buchanan Barnes, a man of your own making. A man of your own choosing. Don’t let anyone take that away from you. Even you.”** The memory is saturated with confusion--you had been protecting Becca from a guy with wandering hands; it had nothing to do with Stevie! He had been home sick.--but there is also a tinge of disregard for one’s own mother. Bucky Barnes had known from the day he met Steven G. Rogers that there would never be such a thing as Bucky Barnes without him (Rogers had, in fact, given him the nickname that very same day). Bucky was who he was in part because of Rogers, and in part for Rogers. You have learned that much throughout these months of wandering. 

That is what makes you acknowledge part of yourself must come from your importance to Rogers. Until that first fall, you had defined yourself so completely by the existence of Steve Rogers that even now you are not sure what would have become of James Buchanan Barnes without him. Perhaps life would have happened the same way--the capture and experimentation that led to the creation of the Winter Soldier--but then you would never have been pulled back by the sound of his voice calling your name. Forever, you would have been frozen and unfrozen, living a half life stained red on all sides. 

No. No, if Rogers’ voice had strength enough to call you back from desolation, then Rogers himself must have strength enough to bear a small piece of who you are becoming. 

It is only as he approaches that you realize you have not become enough for this. You know two things about who you are and that is not enough to hand yourself over to Rogers, not enough to let them take you in and take you apart. Because that is what they will do--even if Rogers objects--and since you have only two parts of yourself to hold on to, you are certain you would fall apart. You had only just begun to know who you were before, only just begun to create an after. They would take you in and break you back in to during. You can’t be during anymore. 

You leave him behind, giving him only a glimpse of you. But you hold on to the sounds of his voice as it follows you around the city. 

 

Peggy. The woman who speaks in your head sometimes. Her name is Peggy. The first memory you get of her is, you think, the first time you meet her. **There is a burning in your gut you cannot identify while men are cheering around you. Rogers turns to look back at you, saying, “Buck, this is Peggy, uh, I mean, Agent Carter. Peggy, this is Bucky Barnes.”**

**“Ma’am,” you told her with a sharp nod. She gives you a gentle smile, before she informs Rogers she has business to attend to and leaves you both behind, amid the still jeering group of rescued soldiers.** You expect more memories of her to come after you know her name--that is what happened with the Howling Commandos, after all. You wonder what was so traumatic about her presence in your life that you have blocked her so spectacularly from it. There are many memories that have only half come back, and you are certain it is because the rest of the memory features her. The only part of your life that has not started to show itself is the part in which she exists. The memory of your first meeting is the only memory you have of her for many months. 

You are grateful for London. 

 

Some days, the memories are good ones. You remember what it is to be happy. To be loved. Stevie is under your arm as you walk down the streets of Brooklyn. The Howlies finding a pub and going out drinking while you all await orders. Sitting around a campfire, reminiscing. Telling stories of home and happiness. 

Most days, the memories are bad ones. The Soldier’s good memories only exist before you fell and became the Soldier with the Weapon, and those run out quickly. The Protector only existed for a short few years before you became the Soldier. Those memories are locked tightly away in a box labeled “Stevie” that you now try so hard not to peer into; they remind you only of what you no longer have. The bad memories only get worse as the days go on. 

You remember the first time you killed a child. 

The Howlies stormed a Hydra base near Strausburg. Intel told you they were experimenting with the super soldier serum again. No one said anything about a child. About the children. You did not know; you helped place explosives. Hydra agents had run out of the building, and the Howlies took them all down. The base was clear. You knew it was clear. 

Yet you all heard the children screaming as the building went up in flames and crumbled down around them. There was grief and horror and rage and a thousand other things you could not identify then anymore than you can now. But those feelings stayed with you for the remainging few months of the Soldier’s first life. Then you remember the second time you killed a child. 

**Patiently, quietly, the Soldier lay in wait. You could feel the gentle breeze as you peered through the scope. For three hours, you did not move but for the necessary rise and fall of your chest with each breath. In. Out. In. Out. The target arrives home with her son. In. Out. In. Out. She kneels behind him. In. Out. You take aim. In. Out. You pull the trigger. In. Both bodies fall to the ground in puddles of red. Out. You stand, ready your things. In. Out. A moment later, you are on your way to the rendezvous point.** The anger and horror run through you now, as they should have when you pulled that trigger. But then, there? You felt nothing. The child had merely been in the way of the target. Your mission was to kill the woman, and while collateral damage was not preferred, it was necessary to complete your mission within your time frame. 

You do not know whether you are better off not having felt this before. Whether you could have ever completed your mission as you are now. But then, you remind yourself, you did not have such autonomy before. If you were then as you are now, you would never have been there. You wonder how many lives would have been different if you had always been as you are now. How many lives would have been different if the Protector had survived the fall instead of the Soldier. 

You did not fall off a train into the snowy terrain, you think. You fell into an icy abyss. 

 

Peggy returns to you, just outside Paris. You see her smiles and her tears. You hear her laughter and her fears. Every moment you begin to remember, you see her strength and you see her heart. She loves Stevie, that much was obvious from your very first memory of her all those years ago. But, too, she loves the Soldier and the Howlies. She takes great care of her appearance, yes, but also of her words. There are few things that she says that are unimportant, that are meaningless drivel. Most of what she says makes you think, or relax, or hope, or a dozen others things that make you real. That make her real. 

One memory of being in the city itself settles itself more quickly than the rest. **“Sergeant Barnes!” she calls as you follow the Howlies into the newly liberated city. “A word, if you please.”**

**“Boys,” you say as a goodbye, turning back the direction you had just come. “Agent Carter, to what do I owe the pleasure?” you ask as you follow her back towards her recently established quarters.**

**“Bucky,” she starts, sitting down at her table and pulling out a bottle of bourbon. There is surprise and disbelief in her voice as she pours two glasses. You give her a questioning look as she bursts into laughter.**

**“Pegs?”**

**“We’ve done it, James. We’ve done it.” You like the way she says your name, filled with fondness and affection. No one but your mother called you James since Stevie first gave you your name. But you find you like the way it rolls off her tongue now. It has her British tinge, stuffed full with happiness and contentedness.** You remember the first time she called you James, soon after your first meeting, and the contrast between these two moments settles the confusion in your chest about Margaret Carter. You loved her deeply, brightly, honestly. She was your greatest friend outside Rogers. It is this memory, this flood of feeling that makes you decide the third part of who you are. 

You are James. 

Perhaps not yet Bucky--perhaps not ever Bucky--but you have a name. You are real. 

 

As the next few months pass, you begin to remember more than just the blood on your hands. You remember more than pulling a trigger and planting a bomb. More than being drenched in another’s blood. You start to remember their names. Frances Evelyn Dowding and her son Robert Thomas Dowding are the first of many. Some victims have only one name, like Charles and Broussard. But you know their faces. Sometimes, you know what their blood tasted like. Others, you know what their bodies looked like charred or blown to pieces. You know so much about these people you never met. These people you never bothered about afterwards. They were targets, completed missions. 

They were more. They are more. They are more real to you now than you are to yourself. 

You find it odd that killing Howard Stark--a man you remember now as a friend, as someone who kept you company and kept you sane and kept you busy during the war--was not the mission you find the most emotionally challenging, now that you are beginning to understand your own emotions. Certainly, it is one of the worst for you. You can remember the surprise and confusion in his eyes when he recognized you, worse still when you showed no signs of knowing him. And how quickly realization set in--you had not aged a day in fifty years, you could not understand who he was, that he was not quite enough to stop what had started before he ever knew your name. No, this is devastating to you now, but it is not the worst. 

The worst is still so much that you cannot bear to think about more than the child’s body, your bomb, and the school that he took up in flames. His is a name you will never know. Collateral Damage.

 

Peggy is living in a nursing home outside of Washington, D.C. You miss her dearly, though you cannot hope that she will still feel the same. You have not been in the United States in nearly nine months. You let Rogers see you outside of an old Hydra base in Germany. He should still think you are in Europe. After all, you have been tearing down bases over there for nearly a year. What could have changed?

What changed is that you remembered the meeting that first drew Peggy close to your heart. You remember her openness about your feelings and her own. Her fierce desire to make you understand, to protect you from the way anyone else might have tried to harm you. You were so harsh and jagged, and she let you stab her with those points. And then she asked for your forgiveness, as though she were the one who needed it. As though you were not watching her bleed from the vicious holes you had left in her. 

You close the door to her room gently, happy to have slipped in unnoticed. She is old, and her body is frail. You wonder if her eyes will still show her strength. You wait for nearly an hour at her bedside while she sleeps. 

As she wakes, you sit frozen, no longer sure if this was a good choice. Her eyes open slowly, filled with a hazy confusion worse than a normal waking person. You stand, as if to leave. 

“Bucky?” she whispers, eyes sharpening quickly as her gaze lands on you. You shake your head, _no, not Bucky_.

“James.” You appreciate how quickly she changed her address. Even all these decades later, she was still the same woman. “Whatever are you doing here? Steve told me...” she trailed off, the memory of his words drifting swiftly. You return to your seat, still silent. “My dear James, whatever happened to you?”

“Pegs...” The sound of your own voice shocks you. The last time you spoke, you were fighting Steve. Nearly ten months of silence. It is hoarse from disuse, shaky from emotion. It is as if she can understand the words that have never, may never, leave your mouth. Just her name, and she knows. 

“I thought we destroyed them, James, that your death was not in vain. We all did. But it seems we were wrong on all accounts.”

“Pegs.” You hope she understands that you do not blame her. That you could never blame her. You had seen the files over the course of these last ten months. Schmidt was dead; Rogers had sacrificed himself to make sure that had happened. Zola had given them everything--how could they have known he was still an agent of Hydra? No one would have. No one good could have stopped it because no one good could have known. 

“I will never forgive myself for giving up on you, James. Maybe I never could have stopped Hydra without Steve; I don’t imagine he would have allowed us to recruit Zola. I certainly shouldn’t have. But I should have looked for you. I should have done more, my dear James.” That is the second time she has called you that, and you allow your confusion to slip on your face. Maybe she would not need it; certainly she had always been able to read your emotions. Half a dozen decades probably would not make a difference. 

She smiled gently at you, “I hope, since you have refused ‘Bucky,’ that I might be allowed some endearment for you. If what you remember is not enough, perhaps you’ll allow it anyway, given my age. We are a senile lot, you know.” You want to tell her that the endearment in her voice when she says your name is plenty. That being here with her, not having been immediately dismissed, is more than you hoped for. Instead, you gently grasp her hand, surprised by the strength she grips yours with in return. 

You tell her, “You aren’t senile, Pegs.”

That is the longest sentence you will say to her before you return to Europe. Rogers must believe you are still there, after all. 

 

The next three months pass between visiting Peggy and destroying more remnants of Hydra. You hate how much still exists. Your memories are slowing in their return. You are of the mind that they have almost all returned. Peggy asks you questions, occasionally, about your shared past. Mostly, you can respond as if you had lived it all with her. Bucky had, but you are still unsure if you can be Bucky. Often as she forgets you, she remembers at least that you are not who you once were. That perhaps you never will be. But she never forgets to ask to speak of you to Rogers. 

“My dear James, I do wish you would let me tell Steve of your visits. It would make him so happy to know that you are safe. He continues to search for you, you know.”

“I know.” You wonder how many times she will ask you. 

“You know I only worry about you both. You have sacrificed so much--for each other, for the world. You both deserve a chance at happiness. At love.”

“Pegs.” Her name is an admonishment. The way Bucky felt about Stevie is not unknown to you. There was always a softness, a fondness to their shared memories. It was similar to that which settled over memories of his mother and Becca, but held a heat that you were unwilling to identify. At least, until the memory of a confrontation with Peggy resurfaced and you finally understood. But you are not Bucky and Rogers is not Stevie. That feeling has long since been lost to both of you. 

“James,” she responds in the same tone. 

After nearly five minutes of silence, you tell her, “It’s not possible now. Anymore than then.” She merely sighs sadly at you. 

 

The world is crashing down around you. You are not sure what drove you to travel to Sokovia, but here you are, and you are watching it rise steadily into the sky as if by magic. You do not think it is actually magic, but you have seen that some humans have skills beyond the normal capacity for humans. People like you and Rogers, only you two are science experiments, and you are not sure these other people are. You will have to look more closely, once you have settled yourself. For now, you are still content to travel, to destroy, to remember, to connect. 

But first, you stand and watch as the ground continues to rise up until it comes crashing down again. You wait, cold, as you think about Rogers. He is there, you are certain, because that is who he is. Rogers is a man who will do everything he can to protect people, and his protection was needed here, today. Perhaps that is what drew you here. Perhaps there was some small part of you that thought you might lend yourself to the cause. 

But you do nothing. Instead, you simply wait for it to fall. Buildings crumble and cars tumble. Everything comes down, bit by little bit until the whole city is thrust downwards. You stand, immobile, and think how amazing it is that technology has come far enough to do something so incredible. It is also devastating. 

Rogers and his team save the world, even if they do not save every person in the city. The dead bodies are not their doing; the living ones are. And as you move out towards the forest, you realize that the man you want to be is not the cause of dead bodies. Even if you are not quite ready to be the cause of the living ones. 

You move to Bucharest.

**Author's Note:**

> This is complete as it stands, but I may come back and add more at a later time.


End file.
